To Soothe the Savage Beast
by Annber03
Summary: A series of seven stories exploring the BAU team's soundtrack to their lives.
1. Hotch: Beatlemania

**A/N:** The team's discussion about music at the end of "The Performer", as well as a couple random comments in other episodes, kickstarted this idea. So much variety in terms of favorite artists and genres…a hard thing to resist for us music lovers as a result.

As the summary notes, this will be a short series, and each team member will be represented by three songs tied to the artists they enjoy. Also, there are a couple artists featured in this series whose songs feature particularly strong language, for those who may be averse to such things, and I will warn for them when they come up. For those who are curious, all songs are on YouTube if you're so inclined to listen.

And finally, the title is an infamous misquote of a line from the 1967 play _The Mourning Bride_, written by English playwright William Congreve. The original line is as follows:

_"Music has charms to soothe a savage breast," – Spoken by Almeria in Act I, Scene 1. _

And with that, on with the stories! First up, Hotch and the Fab Four. Slightest of spoilers for/reference to events with Hotch's marriage in season 3 as well as the Foyet storyline in season 5.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Songs: "Don't Pass Me By";"I'm So Tired";"Helter Skelter"-The Beatles (The White Album)<em>**

_Hotch: "No, you just drank whiskey and smoked cigars." _

_Rossi: "Oh, and this from the man whose favorite record is the Beatles' White Album."_

_Hotch: "Just because Manson hijacked it doesn't have to ruin it for the rest of us." - "The Performer" (Season 5)_

It probably seemed a bit odd that Hotch would be a Beatles fan. After all, he'd completely missed out on the initial wave of Beatlemania, having been born around the time when the Beatles were in the tail end of their career, when the in-fighting and "creative differences" were proving to become too much for the band to deal with.

And yet, he grew up on their music anyway, having heard many of their songs on the radio when he was a child. The band members themselves had all gone on to successful solo careers after their split, but the public's fondness for the band was still strong as ever, the group's music continuing to get tons of airplay, gaining new fans such as Hotch in the process. By the time he was in his early teens, Hotch was collecting their records with his allowance money, hanging out at friends' houses and exploring the band's eclectic, versatile musical catalogue.

College only made his interest in the band even stronger, as he met others who fell for the music of the Sixties, the Beatles included, and saw the influence the band had come to have on many musicians throughout the years.

The _White Album_ had always been Hotch's personal favorite record of the band's work. Sometimes others looked at him oddly for that, and he could understand that reaction. Not only would some not expect a person as straight-laced as him to like such wild, surreal music, but it was indeed a very strange piece of work. A double album, which was a Herculean task right off the bat, and with a variety of genres being explored to boot. From Tin Pan Alley pop to straight up rock to psychedelic Eastern music…and whatever the hell "Revolution 9" was.

But at the same time, that was what made the album, and the band by default, so fascinating. A diverse group of musicians coming together to make a unique piece of work, each member's individual personality and talents shining through along the way.

Their music was part of first dates, first loves, forged friendships, a solace from the stress of his life, both personal and professional. Little did he know it would also inadvertently push and influence him towards an illustrious career as well.

* * *

><p><strong>"<strong>**Don't Pass Me By":**

Aaron Hotchner couldn't sleep.

Not because of work. The team had miraculously managed to snag a couple days off, Hotch requesting a couple extra ones of his own.

He'd needed to take a few days to talk with Haley, he said. The two of them had been attempting to negotiate a few things since their recent separation.

Key word there being "attempting", of course. Looking back now, those extra days off seemed almost a complete waste of time, given how their _negotiations_ had gone. He closed his eyes, frustrated, as his last "discussion" with Haley ran through his head again.

**ooo**

_"__No, I don't know if I'm coming back, Aaron." Her voice sounded small on the other end of the phone, but what it lacked in volume it more than made up for in attitude. _

_If. Not "when". "If". Hotch's stomach had dropped at that little detail, but he pressed on, trying his hand at negotiation. _

_"__We can take a few weeks. Just a few. Clear our heads. Maybe we each just need some time alone." _

_The moment that last sentence was out of his mouth, Hotch cringed. Haley's response made his already grim features even more twisted._

_"__I've had more than my fair share of 'time alone', Aaron. That's. The. Problem." _

_"__I – I just meant –" What the hell is wrong with me? He could talk unsubs out of killing others, or themselves, but somehow he fumbled when trying to explain a simple misspoken sentence? _

_He took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried again. "I just meant that maybe we each need some time to cool down. Ease our tempers."_

_"__I don't have a temper," Haley said, the chill in her voice sending a deep shiver down Hotch's spine. "I'm not yelling." _

_That's what scared him the most. There was a certainty to her tone that did not sit well with him at all. _

_"__I don't, either," he said softly, trying to match her eerie calm. "But just in case, we can take a few days so as not to…worry…Jack. Then when we both feel more relaxed, we can –"_

_"__I don't think that's going to happen anytime soon, Aaron." There was some shuffling and rustling on the other end of the phone then, and Hotch soon heard Jack's voice in the background. _

_"__Jack says hi. I have to go now." And before Hotch could answer, he heard the signal ending the call. _

**ooo**

Now here he was, in his own house, in bed at a reasonable hour…and yet wide awake as ever.

He stared at the empty spot next to him in the bed, trying desperately to imagine Haley there next to him. He longed to see the serene smile on her face as she curled up next to him, how her hand felt as she rubbed his arm, his chest, ran her fingers through her hair. That soft voice, soothing and reassuring him on the nights he'd wake with a fright after a particularly rough case, encouraging him to talk it out.

He remembered the night she told him she was pregnant, how they cuddled in bed, talking about all their plans for the baby as he rubbed her stomach. When they'd toss names back and forth, laughing at some of the more ridiculous-sounding ones. The nights after Jack was born, when she blissfully curled up under the covers as he volunteered to put their crying baby back to sleep.

The first week after finding out Haley had up and left with Jack, he stared at the door in the evenings, hoping to hear the key in the lock and the turning of the knob. Jack would run in calling for his daddy, Haley would smile and hug and kiss him, apologies would be exchanged, and that would be that. Just like old times.

But it'd been three weeks now, and he'd started trying to keep himself otherwise occupied.

_She said "anytime soon" at the end. Soon._ He hadn't heard the word "never" in their conversation.

_Soon. If. _

For now, at least, that was something.

* * *

><p><strong>"<strong>**I'm So Tired":**

_One more file. Just one more._

Some variation of those sentences had been Hotch's mantra throughout the evening, as he counted off each piece of paperwork upon finishing it up. Now, thankfully, **_finally_**, he was down to the very last one. He didn't even dare look up at the clock to see what time it was. All that would get him was a nasty reminder of just how long he'd been sitting here in his office. Either that, or he knew if he looked up, the second hand would stop ticking, the big and little hands would stop moving. Time would freeze, and he'd be left slogging through this hell. He was certain of that fact.

Eh, well, sort of certain. Frankly, Hotch wasn't entirely sure where his mind was taking him now at this ungodly hour, and he'd begun to get used to his nonsensical fantasies and nightmares.

Rubbing heavily at his eyes, Hotch turned back to his work, sighing as he began his usual task of signing off on the required lines. After that, he'd look over the file one last time, making sure all the paperwork for their last case was organized and ready to go. Then off it would go to his frighteningly large stack of paperwork, and out the door he'd go.

He flipped through the pages like a man possessed. The coffee from throughout the night was clearly kicking in by now. So precise, so quick with the scrawl of a pen, and his signature never once looked sloppy. By now, he could practically do this work with his eyes closed.

_Eyes closed. Yeah. That sounds good…_

Hotch blinked then, taking another gulp of coffee. There. All well and alert again. Never hurt to have that extra kick.

And on he went, page after page (he couldn't stop feeling stunned at how thick this particular file was. They'd had some excessive workloads before, but _this_…). Before he knew it, the last page was in his sight.

Hotch smiled. _Smiled!_ He turned his attention to the final blank line, ready to call it good…

…and stopped. Something was wrong.

His brows furrowed as he gazed at the paper. The blindingly bright white paper. And the words. They seemed so…so blurry…so close…

…Hotch jerked his head up, blinking and glancing at his paper. Big, black ink blots splattered across the page. He lifted his hand, and saw the ink had spread all over his fingers as well.

_Damnit. _He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake himself out of his momentary nap.

Now this meant he'd have to talk to Strauss. Would have to get another copy of the page. The higher-ups didn't take too kindly to stained papers – Hotch cringed at the all too visible memory of what had happened when the lead agent on an old team he'd been part of years ago had a similar experience. _All_ the pages in that file were badly stained, and he'd caught hell for it.

Granted, that was the final straw in a list of screw-ups that lead that man to be "let go" from the BAU, thus adding to the chain of events that had allowed Hotch to move into that position. But still. He was already skating on thin ice with Strauss and the higher-ups over the escalating situation with his hunt for Foyet. He did not want to push his luck any further. It was bad enough he was staying at the office so much for work purposes. To lose even that shelter due to lack of a job and home? Not part of his plan.

Now Hotch did look at the clock, trying to hold in a groan as he noticed the time. It was twelve-thirty in the morning.

He looked back at his desk – at least, what he could see of it, underneath all the papers and folders. He opened the blinds and looked out into the now darkened bullpen. A sudden, heavy yawn made his next decision very clear.

First thing tomorrow, he'd go talk to Strauss. In the meantime…

Hotch grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair before heading to the small couch across the room. Collapsing onto the sofa with an exasperated sigh, he then tumbled onto his side, pulling his suit jacket over him as he curled up best he could.

His eyes drooped and fluttered before finally closing, and Aaron Hotchner very quickly thereafter drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>"<strong>**Helter Skelter":**

The fact that one of the nation's most notable criminals claimed to be inspired by this particular song only added to the band's mystique and lore amongst the general public. Hotch found that notable tidbit of information fascinating, too...but for an entirely different sort of reason.

Just like with the Beatles, Hotch was very young, and living on the complete opposite end of the country, at the time an infamous series of murders occurred, ones that horrified the nation at large.

In August 1968, news of the Manson murders swept the nation. Seven people brutally murdered by a "family" (or, as Hotch preferred to call them, a cult) of criminals led by a deranged leader who claimed the murders were part of a planned violent war among the races across America.

The horrific acts were traumatic enough. But once the public got a good look at the criminal mastermind behind it all, once they saw his insanity in action and heard his "reasoning" for the crimes, it made the entire event that much more surreal and terrifying.

When Hotch first heard about how Charles Manson, of all people, had claimed the Beatles, of all bands, were responsible for pushing him to do what he'd done, he was incredulous. The Beatles preached about love, optimism, peace and harmony. They sang sweet, romantic ballads, made young girls go crazy with their innocent, boyish looks, were well-spoken, intelligent people. Manson was seriously crediting _them_ for his actions?

His curiosity led him to pay closer attention whenever the Family made the news over the years, via interviews or other acts of violence. It was the case that captivated him, haunted him. His dad may have inspired him to study law, but if asked, Hotch would always point to the Manson case as the event that kickstarted his particular interest in the study of crime and the psychology of those who become criminals.

In college, he studied the Manson interviews as part of his criminal law education. He would observe the crazed look in the man's eyes, listened carefully to his rants and rambling remarks, took notes on the way Manson gesticulated, or fidgeted. The way he spoke, the words he chose.

Hotch would read the reports about Manson's claims of hidden messages in the _White Album_, messages that seemed to indicate to him that the Beatles were supportive of and prophesizing the violent race war Manson predicted. "Helter Skelter" in particular became the code name for Manson's planned race war; as a result, that song wound up getting the most attention in the media as a result.

A song that sounded flat out insane and wild and raucous being tied to an insane, wild, raucous group of criminals? It seemed eerily fitting. Even the fact that the title referred to a British amusement park slide with that name seemed appropriate. Amusement parks never _were _really Hotch's thing.

He would read the lyrics to that particular song over and over again, trying desperately to see things from Manson's perspective. He looked at the education, or lack thereof, Manson got throughout his life, paid attention to his reading level, his understanding of phrasing and context in whatever he read.

All he wound up getting out of his analysis, however, was a load of frustration and a period of time where it became very hard for him to even listen to the album he'd once claimed as his favorite. All the happy, entertaining memories he'd associated with various songs – the afternoons hanging out with friends, the slow dances with girls he dated, hearing Haley ranting about some of the weirder songs on the record – were replaced with Manson's "interpretations".

It made no sense. How could two people listen to the same band, almost to the point of obsession, and wind up getting drastically different reactions out of their shared musical taste? Obviously there were deeper explanations for Manson's mindset, much, _much_ deeper ones that even the most determined profilers might never be able to uncover.

Still, though, it chilled him to think he had _anything_ in common with this man. Sure, Hotch's job meant he had to identify and sympathize with many criminals, but this particular similarity seemed a little too…personal. And there were some criminals that, try as he might, Hotch just didn't think he could ever quite work up much sympathy for, if any.

Eventually, though, as he encountered many criminals as intense as Manson, if not worse, through his years as a prosecutor, and now as an FBI agent, he was relieved to find himself seeking out the music he loved again. He'd listen to those same sweet, lovely ballads to relax after a case, or to allow him thoughts, and later, fond memories, of Haley. He'd let the rock songs vent the anger and adrenaline he felt whenever a case was particularly tense and dangerous, or to ease the stress of a hectic work day. Sit and chuck at the dry British wit of some of the odder one-off songs, happy to find others who shared his unusual sense of humor.

And when he had to prep himself to deal with another serial killer, when certain cases refused to leave his mind, when memories of Foyet haunted him, his choice of song was always "Helter Skelter".

* * *

><p><em>Reviewscritiques/etc. appreciated, as always._


	2. Rossi: Rat Pack Romance

**A/N: **A big thank you to all who've commented/favorited/followed this series thus far! I hope you enjoy the chapters and songs yet to come as well.

Some slight spoilers for and references to the episodes "Epilogue", "Reckoner", and "Hit", respectively, for this chapter.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Songs: "Volare";"Sway"-Dean <strong>__**Martin/"Strangers In The Night"-Frank Sinatra**_

_Rossi: "I was obsessed with the Rat Pack, but I wouldn't have killed for Frank or Dean." _

_Hotch: "No, you just drank whiskey and smoked cigars." – "The Performer" (Season 5)_

Every boy needs someone to look up to. That was just a simple fact of life.

Rossi was no exception to this fact. His first role model was, of course, his father. He'd had a pretty good home life growing up, took after his dad in many ways. Rossi had inherited his father's strong work ethic, his deep faith. He'd also, unfortunately, inherited his father's quick temper, and it took him a very long time to learn to show the kind of faithful devotion to a woman that his father had given to his mother. He'd never forget the look in his father's eyes the day he announced he was getting a divorce…and how that particular look grew more and more broken with his second divorce, and his third.

His father had never really understood his writing career. Seemed a bit silly, frivolous. But he admired his son nonetheless – Rossi heard his father brag to his friends many times about about how his son was out there "taking down the bad guys". And if he was ever out and about and saw his son on TV, he'd enthusiastically shout, "That's my boy!" Perhaps Rossi could attribute some of his cocky, arrogant attitude to his parents' deep adoration and bragging…but he preferred not to blame them for some of his less than wonderful traits if he could help it.

Even Rossi's taste in music was shaped by his parents, especially his father. He and his wife were Sinatra fans in their younger days, and that appreciation was passed on to Rossi from an early age. Ol' Blue Eyes, the Chairman of the Board…yes, Frank was the boss, and Rossi idolized him very early on. As a child he would entertain his parents by singing his songs around the house, while they happily danced to the music. The fact that Sinatra had Italian roots made his family appreciate him even more – they instilled a strong sense of Italian pride in their son from the start, and any chance for fellow Italians to achieve fame was worth supporting.

When Sinatra teamed up with Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., and Joey Bishop to form the Rat Pack, Rossi's fascination only grew. One Italian was great enough, but two? Rossi's family admired Martin's service to the country, and when Rossi found out Martin had been a boxer, had a tough streak balancing out that seductive romantic side, he knew just the sort of guy he wanted to be growing up. He loved all the varied music and talent each individual member brought to the group, but there was something about Dean in particular that made him Rossi's personal favorite member. He was cool, suave, debonair, had a quick wit, and he also had all the girls at school swooning. Rossi had lost count of the amount of times he'd imitated Martin in an attempt to snag a girl's attention. To his surprise, it worked more often than not, and his skills with the ladies carried on throughout Rossi's life. For better, _and_ for worse.

Thanks to his career of studying criminals for a living, Rossi soon got a good glimpse into the darker side of emulating one's celebrity heroes, and the older he got, the more he found himself feeling thankful his parents had never let his obsession get as far as some people's did. But that never stopped him from occasionally imagining himself as part of the famous gang, or at least settling for making their music a huge part of some of the more memorable moments and relationships in his life. Even now, there were still some songs that took him back to people and places long gone, with memories he would treasure to his dying day.

* * *

><p><strong>"Volare"-Dean Martin:<strong>

There had been many days in David Rossi's life where he wanted to lock himself away somewhere, never to come out again.

He'd felt that way the first time he saw someone die in front of him, back in his military days. And again on the days when he longed to be away from the prying eyes of some of his more…enthusiastic fans, or the media sharks and their inane questions about this and that. Then of course there were the times when he'd had cases that left him with so many nightmares, the times his teammates had found themselves near death. That day with James…

Today was another one of those days. He never thought he could feel the sort of pain he'd felt with his son all those years ago, but here it was again, ripping him apart.

Carolyn's funeral had ended a few hours ago. The turnout was huge, as he'd expected it to be, the team there to support their friend through this difficult time. The service was nice and beautiful and moving and all the things a funeral should be. Carolyn was at peace now, no longer suffering. For that, Rossi felt he should be grateful, and on one level, he was.

Tonight, though, as he sat in his study, he found it hard to feel anything positive at all. His gaze went over to the rain now falling outside, his eyes rolling in response. _Such a cliché._

Peeling his gaze away from the rain, he glanced about the room, looking at the knick-knacks and artwork, the small cross on the wall opposite him, the portraits…

The portraits. His eyes landed on one particular picture, a lump growing in his throat as he walked over and picked it up.

It was a photo from his wedding day. His _first_ wedding, to Carolyn. He'd pulled it out the day after she dropped the devastating news of her illness, putting it out to look upon while he considered the dilemma she'd posed to him over the following days. Looking at that photo, he'd come very close to telling her yes. _If only I had…_

His fingers ran lightly over the part of the picture featuring Carolyn. She'd just eaten some of their wedding cake, a mock horrified expression on her face as the camera caught her looking all messy. Rossi, meanwhile, was mid-laugh – Carolyn would shortly get him back by shoving some of the cake at him.

He chuckled at the memory. If he had to make a list of the best days of his life, his wedding day would always be right up at the top. Always. He looked down at the photo again. Did he dare? Closing his eyes, he cautiously let his mind drift back in time…

**ooo**

Rossi had never been one to feel nervous much. His natural cocksure attitude wouldn't allow it, or at least, it would refuse to let any nerves he ever _did_ have show.

Today, however, he simply couldn't contain himself. He was well aware of how shaky and sweaty his hands were as he buttoned his tux. Felt how dry his mouth was as he looked around for some mints or gum or something to help fix that problem. And his eyes. The eyes were always a dead giveaway to one's emotional mindset. Rossi took one look in the mirror, saw his pupils blown wide, and tried to give himself a little pep talk.

"It's okay. Today's a good day. You're marrying a wonderful girl. Carolyn loves you. She's going to show up. After everything else you've made it through, you can easily do this." A quick nod of the head, one last attempt at smoothing out his hair, a deep breath, and Rossi walked off to meet up with his best man and groomsmen.

**ooo**

She was stunning. For as long as Rossi lived, he would never, ever forget seeing Carolyn heading down the aisle towards him. Her wedding gown was simple yet elegant, sleek and strapless, allowing him a nice long glance at her neck, her shoulders. Her hair was swept up, tied together yet slightly messy at the ends, her lovely curls bobbing. She smiled warmly at him, and Rossi found himself wondering how on Earth she could look so calm. He was very grateful to not have a mirror nearby at that moment – he didn't even want to imagine what his face must've looked like then.

Rossi barely remembered the actual reciting of the vows themselves. All he heard was Carolyn saying, "I do." _She's made it official. She wants to marry me. Me!_ He remembered her laughing nervously as they leaned in to kiss, her soft lips on his, the tears of happiness in her eyes, and his as well, as they parted briefly before embracing.

Their first dance was magical. "Volare" was the song of choice, and Rossi found it a rather appropriate one, for the title was Italian for the phrase, "to fly". As he and Carolyn glided across the dance floor, he could almost swear they were floating, spinning around happily on Cloud Nine. As he looked in her eyes, it seemed to him as though they were the only two people in the room.

And when he whispered the Italian words of the song into her ear, felt her shiver and laugh mischievously, saw the blush in her cheeks…well…he certainly _wished_ they were the only two people in the room right then.

"You know, we never really had a 'song'," Carolyn whispered to him then. "I've always wanted us to have one."

Rossi looked at her then. He didn't even need to say a word. The knowing looks they gave each other were all the confirmation they needed. _This is our song._

**ooo**

In the years following their wedding, even throughout the roughest moments – the fights, the losses, the time apart – Rossi always clung to that glorious day, that freeing feeling of happiness. He wasn't a saint by any stretch. He could easily admit that, especially now. But he never once stopped loving her. Even on the day he came home and saw his bags packed and waiting by the door, his love for her didn't diminish. He spent a period of time after their separation, and eventually, their divorce, hoping and trying to win her back. Romantically, things hadn't panned out the way he'd hoped. But having her friendship, her trust, looking to her as a confidant, was certainly the next best thing. More than he could ever ask for, let alone feel he deserved.

Opening his eyes quickly, Rossi felt the tears starting to fall along his cheeks. Wiping his hand, he went over to his record player (yes, he still owned a record player, as he defensively stated to a very amused Morgan one evening when the team was gathered at his place for one of their occasional get-togethers), beginning to flip briskly through the stack of albums. Finally finding what he'd been looking for, he put the record on, the sound of Dean Martin's smooth voice filling the room, drowning out the nasty weather.

He began to lightly move about the study to the music, happy to see he was still light on his feet all these years later. As he danced, he pictured Carolyn dancing away, too, somewhere up in the heavens, that warm smile of hers ever present. Perhaps she even took an opportunity to dance with James as well.

As the song came to an end, Rossi found himself facing the window again, noticing the setting sun start to peek through the clouds. A hint of a rainbow appeared in the distance as well.

Yes. Carolyn _was_ dancing. Rossi was sure of it. And at that moment, he took comfort in the knowledge that someday, he'd get the chance to dance with her once again.

* * *

><p><strong>"Strangers In The Night"-Frank Sinatra:<strong>

The opening strains of the song caught Rossi's ear, causing his entire face to light up. He knew he liked this bar – they always played the good songs.

Rossi took another sip of his drink as he glanced at the locket for what seemed like the thousandth time. He'd been very grateful to be allowed to keep a hold of it after the case in New York. Had the locket been in certain _other_ hands…well, he didn't want to think about that.

Perhaps Rossi was being selfish. After all, Emma never had been "his". Logic would dictate the locket be buried with her husband. Her parents were long gone, and she'd never had children.

But no. Emma didn't deserve to be buried alongside a hit man. Sure, Boyd Schuller may have grieved for her, but the way he'd _handled_ his grief…

_Then again, if that were me…_ Rossi couldn't shake that thought from his head. He'd always had a quick temper of his own, he'd run with some rough, questionable guys in his younger days. If he'd lost someone he loved to a moment of pure idiocy, like a drunk driver, could he honestly say he wouldn't seek out revenge of his own?

Another gulp of his drink, ignoring the way it burned his throat on the way down.

He had no right to get all high and mighty about who deserved Emma more. After all, he taunted Schuller with a story of a tawdry affair, and a made up one at that. He'd sullied Emma's good name in the hopes of getting the man to confess to his plans.

Worst of all, he'd openly shared a fantasy he'd long had about the woman who haunted his dreams even now. Schuller heard it, his teammates heard it, so did any local cops who were in earshot. That was supposed to be a private thing. A hope, a wish, a fantasy he'd longed to see come true someday.

**ooo**

_They'd meet in a bar similar to this one. The years would've been good to Emma, her gangly teenage frame filling out very nicely. She'd flash that winning smile at him, the one that made him officially realize, at the tender age of twelve, that maybe these girls he'd started to notice the past couple years were worth dating instead of teasing. Her dark hair would frame her face lovingly, all the better for him to run his fingers through the soft strands as he caressed her face. _

_He, too, would hopefully look somewhat dashing. Dark suit, hair slick but not too slick, a rose in his hand ready to deliver. Sinatra would croon softly in the background, the perfect romantic soundtrack to their happy reunion. _

_"Emma," he would say softly, taking her in. "It's been so long."_

_"Yes, it has," she'd agree. "Hello, David. It's so good to see you again." _

_God willing, she would give him a brief hug then. Or touch his arm, rub his hand. _

_They'd find a quiet booth in the corner, away from prying eyes, catching up on old times, the paths their lives had taken over the years. He'd discuss his days in the military, briefly mention his time in the FBI (but he wouldn't dare mention any specific cases, oh, no. This was a romantic evening, not to be ruined with talk of ghastly criminals). He'd discuss his writing career, not bragging about the (very nice) life he'd made for himself, but allowing her to know that he was financially secure and could therefore take care of her every whim and wish. _

_She would tell him she'd never married – she'd had some success of her own career-wise, and wanted to spend a few years focusing on that before settling down. They'd laugh over a gourmet meal about their meeting of pure coincidence a few weeks back, when they'd bumped into each other on the street, and perhaps even discuss the funny nature of fate._

_After that, who knew where the night – and beyond, for that matter – would lead, the other places to which he'd whisk her away? The fantasy always changed after that - island getaways, an intimate night together, possibly even marriage, settling down in their hometown...anything was possible with her by his side in his dreams._

**ooo**

Rossi took a look around the room, a sigh escaping his lips.

Well, he _was_ in a bar. There _was_ a drink. Sinatra was playing in the background, and he would be eating a tasty meal very soon.

Half of that fantasy had come true. The other half, though, that would never be, whether with him or some other man. Emma had slipped through his fingers once again, this time for good. _Star-crossed lovers, just like she'd said_, he thought ruefully. She always did have an eerie prescient ability.

As he continued to gaze at her picture, one question ran through Rossi's mind over and over again.

_Did she ever wonder what might've been, too?_

* * *

><p><strong>"Sway"-Dean Martin:<strong>

_Finally_, David Rossi was in control for a change.

He directed the woman in his arms from one end of the room to the other and back, dipped her and spun her in every way he could command her body to move. So far, much to his delight, she seemed to enjoy his take-charge attitude, allowing him to lead their movements for a few minutes.

That is, until she surprised him by grabbing the reins, so to speak, out from under him.

Rossi gaped, his expression a mix of slight shock and amusement as Erin Strauss spun in, her back to him, his arms wrapped around her front. Without warning, she immediately let go shortly thereafter, dropping out of his grasp onto the floor. The next thing he knew, she was slinking her way back up, her back pressed against his body, a seductive smirk on her face as she looked over her shoulder at him.

Yep, he could officially confirm it. Erin Strauss would indeed be the death of David Rossi.

Just like that, Erin had taken back the control. Rossi had to admit he'd half expected this, though. Erin always had been good at taking him by surprise over the years, in all sorts of ways…and he _loved_ her for it. He'd been pleased, for instance, upon seeing Erin had managed to bring a small radio with her, along with a CD of some of their favorite songs for them to listen to, "to enhance our little…rendezvous", as she put it.

He lived for these moments when she was willing to let her hair down, have some fun. As they'd spent more and more time together within the past year, that side of her became that much more apparent. Tonight, she looked so relaxed, so _happy_, and he'd gladly do anything to help encourage her wilder side.

They continued to tango back and forth to the song that now echoed about the room. Or rather, they attempted to, anyway. Their constant tripping over each other's feet had now thrown them off the beat, and Erin tried to keep a straight face as she noticed the goofy looks Rossi was giving her.

"Will you stop making those funny faces?" she asked in a half-hearted attempt at exasperation, trying to give him her most stern of looks.

"No way," Rossi said simply, smugly. "I'm going to get you to crack eventually, just you wait."

"Not going to happen." Erin looked away from Rossi then, her chin up, attempting a defiant stance. That only made Rossi even more determined to try and catch her eye, however, as he continued making the most ridiculous faces he could think of. Erin, meanwhile, kept tilting her head just out of his reach.

After a few moments of this ridiculous behavior, all pretense of actual dancing had ceased. The two of them were now doubled over laughing as Erin finally gave in to Rossi's silliness.

Well, perhaps those couple glasses of champagne from earlier had had a bit of an effect on them as well.

"You are _incorrigible_, you know that, right?" Erin said through gasps of laughter as she playfully smacked Rossi's shoulder.

"Yes, but you _know_ you love it," he shot back, not even trying to hide his cockiness this time. Why hide the truth, after all?

"I do." _Why deny that same truth?_ Erin straightened herself a little then, feeling Rossi's arms tighten around her as the two leaned in for a quick kiss that soon became anything but.

"Do…you…think…they can…hear us…?" Erin managed to ask in between kisses. The music _did_ seem rather loud, after all.

"Possibly. But," Rossi started before planting a brief kiss to her collarbone, "maybe that'll be a good thing." Erin didn't even have to look at Rossi to know he was waggling his eyebrows, and she did her best to avoid rolling her eyes, her amused smile winning out instead.

He always _had_ been a tough one for her to resist.

The next morning, Rossi was at it again, as playful as ever while she busied herself with getting dressed. She wound up taking much longer to get ready than normal.

Finally, though, the two of them were in their regular attire, all traces of their former selves hidden away. They boarded the elevator together, walked down the hotel hallway together, approached the entrance to the building together. Not a word was spoken the entire time. Oh, they shared a few furtive glances, but that was it. Otherwise, they spent time smoothing their outfits, checking their hair, hoping everything looked as neat and orderly as possible.

Before they finally left the hotel, though, Rossi pulled Erin into his arms for one last, brief yet passionate kiss.

"Until next time," he whispered in her ear.

Erin simply nodded before watching him walk out the door. After she counted off a few moments, she left, too, keeping him in her line of sight as she turned to leave.

As she did, she silently hoped, like she always did, for the day to come when all of this would change. No more back and forth as they traded off who set up the meetings. No more secrets. Someday, the last of their professional barriers would be finally destroyed, and they'd leave together. Go home together. Spend the rest of their lives together.

The mere thought brought a smile to Erin's face as she made her way down the sidewalk, not daring to glance back.

* * *

><p><em>As always, reviewscritiques/etc. are appreciated._


	3. Prentiss: Through The Looking Glass

**A/N:** Once more, I thank all who are following/favoriting/reviewing this series. Some spoilers for/references to the episodes "Tabula Rasa", "Seven Seconds", and "Profiler, Profiled", as well as Emily's undercover stint as Lauren Reynolds.

A warning ahead of time to readers: there will also be some reference and allusion to childhood abuse later on in this chapter.

* * *

><p><em><strong><em>Songs: "Happy House";"Candyman";"Kiss Them For Me"-Siouxsie and the Banshees<em>**_

_*In response to an old high school photo of Emily that Garcia found*_

_Prentiss: "You really didn't change anything?"_

_Garcia: "I hacked it, as is. You're seriously trying to tell me you don't remember rocking that look?"_

_Reid: "Perhaps your lack of recognition stems from a dissociative fugue suffered in adolescence…say, at a Siouxsie and the Banshees concert?" - "Tabula Rasa" (Season 3)_

Emily's eyes darted about the bullpen.

Nobody settled at their desks. Morgan and Reid had headed off for a coffee break, while Garcia had long ago headed back to her office. She could see Hotch through the blinds of his office, busily writing away. And JJ and Rossi had left a while ago to get lunch for everyone.

She breathed a sigh of relief. _Finally_, a few moments to herself.

Flipping quickly through her folders, Emily began her search. "Come on, it's got to still be here," she muttered. Then, "Aha!"

She pulled the old high school photo out from where she'd quickly hidden it away earlier in the day. Laying it out on the desk, she hunched forward, giving one last look around the room, just to be sure, before turning her focus back to the picture.

_Garcia was right. What the hell _was_ I thinking? _Emily shook her head in amazement as she took in the unruly, wild hair. The eyeliner. The – oh, _god_…black lipstick, really?

Outfit was kinda cool, though. Emily had to applaud her younger self's taste in clothing, at least. Frankly, she was just amazed that her school hadn't protested that for her pick for senior photo. She would've totally understood if they had – maybe not then, but most certainly now.

Of all the team members to see this blast from her past, she was admittedly grateful that at least it was Garcia and Reid. Sure, they'd teased her a bit, but at least it was in a gentle, lighthearted way. If JJ saw the picture, Emily could live with that, too. She'd probably find it cool, actually, and want to know more about Emily's "rebellious youth". And Rossi would just fire off an amused quip and move on.

Under absolutely no circumstances would Morgan ever be allowed to see the picture, though. That much was for certain. He'd _never_ let her live it down. And Hotch…good lord, she didn't even want to imagine the look on his face if _he_ were to stumble across it. A respectable FBI agent dressed like _that_? No. There were just some parts of her past no boss of hers was ever meant to know about.

Emily shook her head then, a smirk on her face, as she continued gazing at the picture. Reid had actually been on the nose with his assumption about how that crazy younger version of her came to be – either that, or Garcia had filled him in, one of the two.

She was seventeen. Siouxsie Sioux was her idol. The woman was tough, commanded a stage like nobody's business, she managed to achieve success in the oft-male dominated music world…and all while retaining her bizarre look and singing about weird topics most people never sang about and being honest and confident. Why wouldn't she want to emulate that? Sure, she knew that if she were to talk about her teenage goth years, most people would probably roll their eyes and smirk. _Yeah, you and practically every other teenager went through that. "Nobody understands me!" and so forth._ Course, if they'd learned about just what all she went through as a teenager, maybe her phase wouldn't seem so silly to them.

Emily's expression had now turned sympathetic as she ran a hand over the picture. Now the memories were clear as a bell. She'd gone out with some friends one evening, yes, to a Banshees concert. Partly because she loved the band and wanted to see them, and partly to get away from her mom and blow off some steam for a few hours. She'd been running on adrenaline, inspired by the fierce female on stage, singing lyrics that she related to (and which, she found, became more and more meaningful with each passing year).

And okay, sure, _maybe_ she might've been in an…_altered_ state of mind that night, too, thanks to the people she was with. _Speaking of "what were you thinking?" decisions… _Cue a trip the next day to an exclusive stylist, a few hours poking around an edgy clothing store, and voila! Whole new look.

_Siouxsie could pull it off flawlessly. Me? Not so much. _

Now that split second decision was captured forever in a photograph. Emily still had some residual embarrassment at this particular part of her past being dug up, but now that embarrassment was mixed with an odd fondness, too. Sure, her decisions that night might've been rash, but that young girl showed an impulsiveness, a daring, to try something new and take a chance, not caring at all what others thought along the way. If her favorite singers could take risks, why couldn't she? Taking risks had certainly paid off well for Emily throughout her life since then, after all. Sitting in this very office was proof of that.

Yeah. If that version of herself could deal with the strange looks and teasing remarks, so could she. Besides, if anyone really got annoying about it, she'd simply get Garcia to hunt down_ their_ cringeworthy pasts in return.

She still had no plans to share this with Hotch, though, for reasons already noted. Though, thanks to her memories of the concert, she was now very, very tempted to introduce him to the band's rather unique take on a couple Beatles songs. _That_ reaction would surely be priceless.

* * *

><p><strong>"Happy House":<strong>

One simple trip to a mall.

Just a few seconds. Just a few _hours_, even.

That was all it'd taken for the seeming calm and innocence in two families' lives to change forever.

Emily shuddered from her spot in the backseat of the SUV. She looked out the side window once again, gazing at the flashing lights, the curious onlookers milling about the parking lot, the police officers and security guards shooting away said onlookers. The bright lights from inside the mall gleaned over the entire scene.

Easily one of the most surreal scenes Emily had ever witnessed.

She leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes, trying to process everything. Emily had thought the day was going to be bad enough when she and her teammates initially assumed they were looking for a serial child abductor and killer. She really should've known by now that there was no limit to the horrors this job could bring.

A little girl had nearly died tonight. And why? Because the child's aunt wanted to protect the shameful secrets lurking within her own family. Perhaps, in her own twisted way, she even might've felt she was saving her niece from further pain as well.

Emily could already predict the townspeople's reactions when interviewed about this. _You never expect this in your neighborhood, the Jacobs were nice people, seemed like the perfect family._ And so on and so on. It never ceased to amaze Emily how people could still believe such statements, especially in this day and age. _There's far more of this out there than people even realize. _She had a frightening amount of past examples to back that statement up.

There was the case with those Russian mobsters. The children in Denver who had to go back to a foster home that didn't live up to its description. The Harris family – Nathan, with the lurking signs of evil, and his mother, who tried to dismiss them and make like all was fine. And it certainly wouldn't be her last. The fact remained that there were always going to be those families that hid their darkest secrets. Emily didn't even want to think at that moment about just how awful some of those secrets were – she'd learn about them soon enough anyway, whenever their next case came in.

Even her teammates weren't immune from that sort of deception. Morgan was fortunate enough to have a family that cared about him, loved him! He had people to turn to for help, and he still kept his painful secrets from his youth anyway.

Reid, too. Emily didn't know all the details of his childhood, but he had mentioned his dad up and leaving when he was a kid once, and there were cases when he'd discuss certain child behaviors and fears in ways that implied he'd had some firsthand experience in dealing with them. He seemed very experienced at what it took to cover up an unstable home life.

And Hotch. He was his usual take charge self at work, kept that emotionless expression on his face, did his usual workload (and then some). He'd talk about Jack like the proud father he was, and referenced Haley from time to time as well.

Every so often, though, his "tells" would betray him. Yes, he did his usual workload. Until eleven at night, midnight…and sometimes beyond. His "take charge" attitude occasionally crossed over into aggressive, demanding, downright angry – and not just because he was pissed off at the despicable actions of their latest unsub.

The references to Haley had grown less and less, especially in recent months. The mentions of Jack often brought a hint of sadness to that normally expressionless face, and sometimes Emily caught Hotch gazing longingly at pictures or video clips of his son.

Then there was Emily herself. Her mom still didn't know about the grandchild that never was. She clearly remembered her mom's constant hesitation about Matthew or John coming around her house. _Suppose Matthew started in on one of his rants? Or John came in in that…rebel gear? What would the neighbors say?_

And when she went into her own wild spiral as a teen? She was quietly sent off to "deal with it" and "get help". It wouldn't look good for an ambassador's daughter to be out there raising hell, after all, or running with a rough crowd.

The list could go on and on. There was no such thing as "the perfect family", and "normal" was whatever each person deemed it to be. Yet people still lied to themselves and others each and every day regardless.

The funny thing was, Emily could understand that need to lie. It kept people sane, it protected them from judgment and nosy questions, and sometimes, the secrecy even saved some people's lives.

Tonight was a stark reminder to Emily, though, that understanding did not always equal accepting.

* * *

><p><strong>"Candyman":<strong>

In the short time Emily had been with the team, she'd never known a plane ride to be completely silent. If, for whatever reason, she and her teammates weren't talking, laughing, or analyzing case files, it was still always a guarantee that there'd be _some _sort of noise. The rustling of papers. Echoes of music floating out from Morgan's headphones. Soft, light (or in the case of Gideon, loud and rumbling) snoring. The scraping of chess pieces across a board, or the shuffling of card decks.

Tonight, however, as the old saying went, it was so quiet one could hear a pin drop.

Emily subtly took stock of her teammates. Hotch and Gideon sat next to each other, files and a book in their respective hands. They were only pretending to read them, though. JJ, meanwhile, sat next to Emily. Her eyes were closed. But Emily knew full well she wasn't sleeping.

Reid was sat across from her and JJ, next to a window. He didn't even try to hide his worried expression as his eyes kept going back and forth between the clouds outside and the other side of the jet, over to where Morgan sat.

Morgan, meanwhile, was settled on the couch, knees up to his chest, facing away from everyone. He hadn't moved a muscle the entire time, and there were no headphones in sight. His lips were in a tight line.

There was no question as to what, or rather, _who_, was on everyone's minds then.

Carl Buford. Morgan's traumatic past had caught up with him, and now everyone knew about it. Just the creep's name alone was enough to make her blood boil.

He'd known every trick in the book to get children on his good side. He worked at a youth center. Saw to it they all managed to get out of their problematic neighborhoods and make their way to college. Charmed the parents, making them feel completely at ease about leaving their children alone with him. Morgan's family was a smart, trusting bunch. Their love for their son and brother was obvious from the moment she met them, and they'd no doubt had the absolute best of intentions in mind when they allowed Buford to help steer Morgan into a better life.

And that sicko had taken that good faith and kindness and destroyed it in one fell swoop.

Emily looked down then, noticing one set of fingers furiously picking at the nails of the other. She quickly stopped, rubbing her hands along her thighs, letting out a barely audible sigh.

She'd had an uneasy, creeping sensation running up and down her spine the moment Mrs. Morgan had started talking in such glowing terms about Buford.

_"He took Derek under his wing. Um, mentored him. He became like a surrogate father. He taught him football, and that changed Derek's life. He got a scholarship to college with it, he got his degree."_

None of what she'd said sounded bad on the surface – quite the contrary, actually, it seemed so innocent. A feel-good, uplifting story of redemption. Many adults helped children through rough times every day with only the purest of intentions in mind, after all, and the outcomes were often good.

But there was always a limit to the niceness. Emily knew that. Her concerns weren't borne out of cynicism, though; rather, they were simply a result of her being practical. Realistic. _That_ much attention paid to a child, _that_ many gifts and special favors lavished upon them…Emily couldn't explain it, but something had seemed off. Especially when she'd learned the guy had done that with many other kids as well.

She'd wanted so badly to be wrong in her assumptions, of course. Maybe he really _was_ just an extraordinarily friendly guy. Maybe he sincerely cared about kids and wanted to give them the things in life they wouldn't otherwise have an opportunity to obtain. Emily had been so lucky to live a life full of creature comforts, to never want for anything. Where did she get off making accusations and assumptions about those who tried to help people who weren't as fortunate as her? What business was it of hers to pry into the life of someone she'd only known for a brief number of months?

Unfortunately, however, she had been right. She couldn't help her suspicions – her career had prepared her to look for the signs. Ian Doyle hadn't physically abused his son, but she saw the subtle grooming. She was well aware of the way he bent over backwards to make sure his boy had everything he could ever ask for, in the hopes that it would make him more susceptible to going along with what his father _really_ wanted.

She'd dealt with other similar cases throughout her career, too. It was always the same, with adults giving gifts in order to cover up whatever horrific abuse they inflicted on the children. In those moments, she could put on her professional face, take care of the cases as they came and deal with the emotional and mental aftermath in the privacy of her own home.

She couldn't do that this time. This case affected someone she knew. That fact only added to her anger, made her more protective. Sure, she hadn't known him as long as the others, but still, as cliché as it sounded, she had come to view this team as her family. She wanted to say or do something, _anything_, that would help take this pain away.

For now, though, it was very clear Morgan wanted to be left alone, and so that was that. Emily decided then to follow JJ's lead and make like she was sleeping. Lord knew she wouldn't be able to actually sleep tonight anyway if she tried.

Before she did, though, she snuck one last glance at Morgan. He was laid out on the couch now, eyes closed, looking as though he were trying to sleep as well. Either that, or ignore everyone's stares, one of the two.

Emily simply gave him one last sympathetic glance, before finally closing her eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>"Kiss Them For Me":<strong>

"Did you tell them?"

"Yep. It's been confirmed. As far as they know, you're no longer alive."

Emily leaned against the wall, letting out a long sigh as she listened to Tsia's reassuring words. Odd, perhaps, that the announcement of her death would sound reassuring, but in this particular case, it was the best news she'd heard in some time. Hopefully, with this information, they could all finally begin to move on.

"What was my means of death again?"

"Car accident. You were out for a lovely afternoon drive, and another driver didn't see where they were going, colliding into you as a result." She put on a serious, mournful tone. "It was all very sudden. Most assumed you'd die in the crossfire of a weapons deal gone wrong, not during an innocent, uneventful day's drive in the gorgeous countryside." She sniffled, making her voice crack for extra emphasis.

Emily looked at her witheringly. "Are you done?" she asked, trying to hide the smirk on her face. For such a grounded, down-to-earth woman, Tsia really did have a flair for the dramatic from time to time.

"Yes." Tsia smirked. "And don't worry, by the way – all the details with your…'body'…have been dealt with."

Emily frowned at that news. "Shouldn't I be briefed on that? In case anyone asks?"

"Who's going to ask you? You're not Lauren anymore. Lauren's dead, remember?"

Emily blinked. "…Right. Of course."

Tsia frowned. "Don't tell me you _want_ to go back to being her already?"

"No, no!" Emily said hurriedly. "It's not that. Just…" She shrugged. "Seems right to know all the details of my character's death, doesn't it?"

Tsia sighed. "I'll talk to Clyde about that. Deal?"

"Deal." The two women firmly nodded, as though to seal the agreement. Tsia gave Emily one last curious glance. "You're _sure_ you're okay?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I'm fine. Thanks again for all your help, Tsia. I really appreciate it."

"No problem." She turned to leave the room, only to give her friend one last glance. "Take it easy for a bit, okay? You're starting to actually _look_ like death." She then headed out of the room.

_Take it easy. Yeah. That sounds good._

Emily sank down in a chair, running her hands up the sides of her face and into her hair. Her head was spinning with the events of late…it seemed to have all happened so fast, and yet, it felt like a lifetime ago, too.

The undercover mission had finished. Declan and his nanny were safely squared away in a new country. Doyle was in jail, and his cronies…well, they'd scattered about, but Clyde vowed to keep an eye on them. Now that great pains had been taken to block off anything and anyone tied to Ian Doyle, an agreement had been made between the JTF agents. Emily's undercover persona, Lauren Reynolds, had to officially "die" as well.

Nothing too dramatic and spectacular, of course. Didn't want to draw attention. Her death had to appear simple, to where only those who were closest to Lauren would mourn.

She'd had a good life. Emily had seen to it that was the case. She'd set up an entire history for her alter ego in her mind at the beginning of this assignment, in part to prepare herself in case questions arose on either end, but also because if she was going to get into this persona, she wanted to fully immerse herself in the character. The woman needed a past, a present, and a future to make her a truly well-rounded, believable figure. Emily hadn't revealed every last detail to her teammates, though, and Doyle and his buddies knew even less than they did. Every girl needed her secrets, after all.

Lauren had had two parents who doted on her, but whom sadly passed away some years ago – illness in her mother's case, a broken heart in her father's. There was one younger sister, Amelia, that Lauren adored, but who lived rather far away, therefore making any visits few and far between.

And Lauren's current life, all things considered? Wasn't too bad. She lived in a lovely mansion. Took care of the child of the house as though the boy were her own. She wore fancy clothes and dazzling, expensive jewels, spoke several languages, had a top notch education. And she was doted on every single day by a handsome Irish man who loved her dearly and whom she loved in turn.

It was all so glamorous and beautiful and carefree. To the average passerby, she was a posh woman who had it all, the envy of those around her.

Now that blissful life Lauren Reynolds led had suddenly ended, the planned future never becoming a reality. The official story was that Lauren had gone for an afternoon drive, telling some friends she'd be running late for a gathering that evening…and that was the last time she spoke to anyone who knew her.

The more she thought about it, the more Emily really didn't understand the hesitation about hearing all the details of Lauren's passing. She was simply curious, that was all. It wasn't often one got to witness the aftermath of their own death, so it was only natural she'd want to see how it all played out. Did Lauren suffer? Where'd they "bury" her? Was there a memorial, to make it more believable? If there were mourners, who cried, who was angry, who moved on quickly? What memories remained from the life she'd led?

Emily's hand slipped down to the necklace she currently wore. It'd been a present from Doyle, with two rings to symbolize their love for one another and promise of a future together.

Much to her surprise, she felt her eyes well up with tears. A knock on the door then had her quickly wiping them away.

"Ready to go, Emily?" Clyde asked as he poked his head in.

"Yeah," Emily said, her tone a little too bright. "Yeah. I'm ready."

* * *

><p><em>Chapter title "Through the Looking Glass" taken from a Siouxsie and the Banshees album of the same name. As always, reviewscritiques/etc. are appreciated._


	4. Morgan: Representing

**A/N: **First things first, apologies for the delay in updating!

Second, to anyone giving the songs in this chapter a listen, fair warning they'll contain some strong language. As will a few parts of this chapter. Spoilers for "Profiler, Profiled", "Restoration", and "Brothers In Arms" within as well.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Songs: "Life's A Bitch";"One Love";"Represent"-Nas (Illmatic)<em>**

_Reid (to Blake): "Something's bothering you. I can always tell when you're bothered, because you whisper lyrics to yourself. Hip-hop, specifically. I thought it was odd at first, but then I remembered your dissertation was on the fluidity of metaphor. You seemed to have a particular fondness for Nas." _

_Blake: "…wow. How did you know?"_

_Reid: "Morgan made me listen to him when we started working together. He said, 'Anybody that can't quote Illmatic is ignorant'." - "#6" (Season 8)_

When it came to music, Morgan was a pretty easygoing guy. Even if it was a genre or style that wasn't really his thing (country, teenybopper pop), he didn't make a big thing about other people enjoying such things. To each their own. And in turn, most of his friends tended to be the same way with the music he listened to. Motown was good with them, as was big band, jazz, hard rock (that wasn't as big a genre with him, but it was there amongst his favorites to some extent), blues…everyone could generally find something in his playlist to enjoy.

Except rap or hip hop. For some reason, those particular genres often seemed to cause the most extreme reactions. People either loved them (Garcia, Emily to some extent, Blake – a revelation that had surprised Morgan a little) or hated them (Seaver, Elle, Gideon, which was no surprise). That attitude wasn't confined to his friends, either. It'd been one he'd run into quite frequently whenever the topic of favorite types of music came up in general conversation at any variety of places he stepped foot into.

To be fair, he could understand the extreme dislike on some level. Seaver and Elle had often cited the misogynistic attitude of the lyrics as their reasons for not being fans of that music. Others noted the multitude of rappers that had nasty run-ins with the law, or the constant talk of drugs and violence, all of which would send a bad message to listeners. Some argued rap and hip hop weren't "real music" to begin with, rather seeing it all as just a bunch of random noise, with lyrics that "anyone could come up with". Besides, they didn't even play real instruments!

That last argument was where Morgan often felt a need to step in and disagree. Many artists of the early twentieth century didn't play instruments on their songs. Hell, some of them didn't write the songs at all. Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, a lot of Motown artists, they all had hits that were written and performed instrumentally by entirely different people. As for anyone being able to put together a rap? Morgan had to laugh quite heartily at that one – there were so many times he longed to dare anyone who made such a statement to come up with a rap right on the spot. See how easy they thought it was then.

The arguments about the misogyny, or bragging about violence and drugs, had merit. Much as he enjoyed that music, some of those lyrics made him rather uncomfortable, too, and Morgan would've been totally fine with people refusing to enjoy those genres on those grounds…

…if said people didn't then turn around and listen to their rock artists who bragged about how many "chicks" they slept with, or sang songs tailor-made for strip clubs. To say nothing of all the rock bands that sang quite frequently about drugs, hell, wrote their songs while_ on _drugs, or the goth and metal bands who tried to be all menacing with their songs full of creepy, disturbing imagery. Same with the arrests. Morgan had studied notable cases during his law enforcement career, some of which included many rock, country, and pop artists having some notable run-ins of their own with the cops and spending some time in jail.

Even laying out all those similarities, Morgan still didn't mind people personally not caring for those types of music. He _did_ care, however, that so many people refused to even accept its purpose in the musical world. It was the music of the inner city, it spoke to all the trouble and desperation that people who lived in those areas struggled with day in and day out. Yes, the language was colorful, sometimes brutal and blunt. That's how people had to learn to speak in order to survive, that's how they were raised. It wasn't a justification or an excuse, just an explanation.

There was also the fact that rap and hip hop music wasn't even _all _serious! Morgan could still remember fondly eagerly learning the words to the Sugarhill Gang's "Rapper's Delight" a silly novelty song, with his friends. He took cues from LL Cool J about how to be suave with the girls in his neighborhood. And the silly antics of guys like Public Enemy's Flavor Flav or the witty lyrics of Tone Loc were enough to make him laugh and lighten up for a while.

But the days where he dealt with haunting memories of his dad's death, or that boy with the unmarked grave, or the pain of Buford's torture...those were the moments when he found himself turning to groups like N.W.A., Public Enemy's darker, edgier songs, and artists like Nas, to help him sort out all his frustrations and anger and fear. Once he'd become a cop, and certainly after he joined the FBI, that music became even more of a solace for him, allowing him to further blow off any steam or rage or heartache he felt over some of the horrors he witnessed on the job. The music kept him grounded, made him realize just how lucky he was, and reminded him to never forget about the people he grew up with or the struggles he went through.

So yes. To each their own with one's musical preferences, Morgan could agree on that. All he asked in turn was some understanding and respect, no matter what the genre was. Each one represented something important about life and the people the music was performed by and meant for, and if one listened long enough, perhaps, Morgan hoped, they might learn something along the way.

* * *

><p><strong>"Life's A Bitch":<strong>

"What?" Reid frowned as he heard the deep, heavy sigh from his partner.

Morgan, meanwhile, was trying desperately not to bang his head against the steering wheel. "Nothing," he sighed. _Note to self: Think twice before offering Reid a ride to work next time._

"I'm just saying," Reid continued, seeming to brush off or not notice Morgan's ever-thinning patience, "this guy's talking about wanting to live the gangster life, with women falling all over him, and bragging about his talents with weaponry. At the very least, he's got a hint of narcissistic qualities to him."

"You _do_ know he's not meaning it literally, right?" Morgan replied, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice as he looked directly at Reid.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, I know that. But clearly this is a fantasy he wants to make real. It's something worth exploring, why a person would want to live that kind of a lifestyle. Especially one who seemed to grow up the way he did, and would know what it's like to be so desperate to get money or protection. It makes you wonder whether that was just something he became accustomed to, or –"

"Reid." The car had stopped at a light now, allowing Morgan a chance to pinch the bridge of his nose. "How many more times do I have to tell you this today? Don't. Profile. The musicians."

He pointed at the car CD player. "This is a classic album, a very _important_ one. It talks about topics that don't get much attention in the media, about problems that people are facing every single day. Basically," Morgan paused, taking a second to focus on the road as he began driving again. "anyone who can't quote _Illmatic_ is ignorant." He finished off his rant with a dismissive wave of his hand, before casting a brief sideways glance at a now wide-eyed Reid. "Just _listen_ to the words, okay? There's a deeper meaning to them."

"Sorry," Reid mumbled. He settled back into his seat, staying perfectly still and quiet as the song finished out and another one started. The two men listened, one ever so slightly nodding his head in understanding, mouthing the words, the other taking in the lyrics and committing them to his infallible memory bank. Morgan tensed briefly, waiting for the kid next to him to start up with another analysis.

Nothing. He didn't notice it, but Reid's face remained inscrutable as he listened to the song.

Morgan frowned. The silence continued for the rest of the drive to work, leaving him feeling slightly unnerved.

**ooo**

_This wasn't going to be pretty,_ Morgan noted with some trepidation.

The neighborhood he was currently winding his way through was, to put it politely, a dump; fitting, considering the town in general wasn't in much better shape. Rundown homes, windows busted out, junk cars. There were people yelling at each other on porches, children covered in dirt, dust, and general grime. The town might as well have had a "Keep Out" sign replacing the worn-down "Welcome" one greeting the team. Morgan had grown up in Chicago, so he'd seen some rough neighborhoods, but this place…this just screamed hopeless. _Just the sort of place a criminal would dwell._

Hotch had assigned Morgan and Reid to investigate this particular neighborhood in the hopes of learning more about the current unsub the team were hunting. Said unsub was a druggie who had been committing a string of murders in the area. "Druggie" was an understatement, though – the man was hopped up on meth, cocaine, heroin….name the hard drug, and he flocked to it. He met people on corners with the excuse of doing a deal, only to kidnap them and try to use them to score more drugs. Whether the attempt was a success or not didn't matter – he ultimately killed them anyway. He'd also taken to leaving little messages next to the victims, cruel ones indicating his personal views on the victims in question.

Morgan had encountered a few guys like him back when he was a cop, and tracking and taking them down was always an unpredictable, harrowing experience. They had always been some of his least favorite criminals to deal with, and this was no exception. On the outside, he looked as calm and cool as ever, but on the inside? His stomach was doing knots.

A quick glance at Reid showed that the young man didn't seem even remotely fazed, however. Or if he was, he was hiding it even better than Morgan. He simply stared out the window, arms folded, his intense focus on the passing scenery.

_Strange, strange kid._ Morgan had only been working with Reid for a couple months at this point, and he still didn't quite know _what_ to make of the guy. He was a nice enough guy in general, but he was just so…so _weird_. Uber-nerdy, reminiscent of the Poindexters Morgan had known back in school. Twig-like in build – Morgan had spent many a day wondering how exactly the kid had managed to handle the physical qualifications necessary to join the FBI.

He was also quiet, and awkward as hell in social situations, making conversation with him tough to navigate sometimes. And he tended to disappear into his thoughts _way_ too often, to the point where the distant look on his face when he did so spooked the hell out of Morgan…

This current situation was no exception. "See anything?" Morgan asked then, clearing his throat and shifting a little in his seat.

"Mmm…not yet." Reid murmured.

"Charming town, isn't it?" Morgan raised his eyebrows as they passed a boarded up store.

Reid shrugged. "I'm from Vegas. I've seen worse."

Morgan eyed Reid, his eyes wide with surprise. _Vegas? Him? Really?_

"There!" Reid said suddenly, jabbing his finger at the window, startling Morgan. The two men's eyes followed a guy coming up to a corner. Morgan had barely stopped the car before jumping out in a flash, while Reid notified his teammates they had the guy in their sights. He watched as Morgan chased the man…and then felt a jolt of fear run through him as he saw the unsub turn sharply, tearing back down the street.

Right towards him.

With a gun in his hand.

Before he even had time to react, however, he heard a loud "OOF!" Quickly unbuckling his seatbelt, Reid leaned across the driver's seat, looking past the still open car door to check on his teammate.

Morgan sat atop the man, yanking his hands behind his back and holding him down. The man immediately started wrestling, ranting all the while. "I didn't do nothin'! You got nothin' on me! I'll be out soon, you'll see!"

Morgan, however, would have none of it. "Stop moving and shut up. _I said, 'Stop. Moving'!_" Morgan growled. His hands pressing on the guy's back forced the man to quiet down. Morgan looked up at Reid. "You okay, kid?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. You?" Reid hadn't even done any running, yet he still felt a need to catch his breath.

"I'm good." Morgan looked back down at the guy again, tightening his grip once more.

Shortly thereafter, the rest of the team and the local cops arrived. Morgan handed the unsub off to a cop, rolling his eyes as the guy's ranting started up again. Hotch ran over to check on him and Reid, and Morgan frowned upon seeing his boss' face. He looked grim. Well, grimmer than usual.

"What's up, Hotch?"

Hotch sighed. "The cops found his most recent victim this morning. A young woman. They'd found a phrase scrawled on her stomach."

"A phrase?" Reid asked curiously. "What was it?"

"Life's a bitch," Hotch replied, wincing as he uttered the final word. Morgan mirrored his actions, shaking his head.

"Then you die," Reid murmured suddenly. Morgan whipped his head around, catching Reid's eye.

"What?" Hotch also looked at Reid then, thoroughly confused.

"It's a song lyric," Reid explained. "Tells you what he thought of this woman." He pressed his lips together thinly.

Hotch took a moment to let that sink in. He nodded. "I'll inform the cops." And with that, he walked off.

As Reid turned to observe the scene before him, he gave Morgan a sideways glance before speaking softly. "I think this unsub greatly missed the point of that particular song."

Morgan felt a swell of admiration as he stared at his friend. He nodded, a rueful smile on his face. "C'mon, kid," he said, affectionately patting Reid's back. "Let's go."

* * *

><p><strong>"One Love":<strong>

Morgan glanced around the room. It looked perfect. The floor was spotless, the cracks and dents in the walls covered up completely. The broken doorknob had been fixed, and the door itself rested comfortably on its hinges.

Everything looked perfect. This restoration had been a lot of hard work, but it'd been all worth it. The house was now livable, ready for some family to move in and make happy memories.

He should've felt proud. He should've felt excited. Content.

But he didn't.

Instead, all Morgan could think about was the recent case he and his teammates had worked. That wasn't unusual in and of itself – sometimes thinking of the cases proved beneficial to Morgan during his restoration projects. They were good motivators for him to focus on doing something to give back to people, and make him feel like he was protecting citizens in a much less hectic, violent way.

This time, however, he was angry, confused. Far too distracted to really pay much attention to his work.

Buford was dead. Morgan had imagined far more times than he could count what his reaction would've been to that news over the years. He'd feel relief and satisfaction at knowing the bastard was gone, knowing he couldn't hurt anyone else anymore or go on bragging about all the horrible things he'd done, taunting his victims from behind prison bars.

And he wouldn't weep for Buford, either. Hell, no. It'd be all Morgan could do to keep from dancing on the bastard's grave.

Now that the time had come, however, none of those feelings were showing up anywhere. Morgan had just assumed the stunned reaction he'd had on the plane upon hearing the news would pass, and those reactions he'd long pictured would eventually surface. Yet here it was, a week later, and not even a hint of them to be found. It drove Morgan crazy to the point where he spent a few very sleepless nights tossing and turning and walking about his home, analyzing to death why that would be the case.

Sitting in the midst of the currently empty room, thinking his confusion over yet again, Morgan finally began trying to put it all together as best he could.

Buford had been murdered in jail, apparently, by some of his cellmates. That bugged Morgan, but he wasn't quite sure why. After all, he'd often made threats against some unsubs that particularly drove him up the wall. He'd dealt with so many cases where he'd longed to take the unsub out himself, especially if they posed a threat to children, or one of his teammates. He'd lost count of how many fantasies he had about killing Doyle when he thought Emily was dead, had even gone so far as to make room for possible situations in his search for Doyle that would allow him to take a fatal shot at the man, if possible.

This, however…this seemed weird to him. Oh, it was true that he wasn't grieving Buford's death, just as it was true that he felt some measure of relief at knowing the guy no longer posed a threat of any sort to anyone else.

"Posed a threat" were the words that kept getting stuck in Morgan's mind, though. _The victims._

That was it. It wasn't the victims who got their ultimate payback. Buford died as a result of the actions of total strangers, people who were justifiably disgusted by what he'd done but who had no personal ties to the situation. Morgan had half expected that possibility, of course, as he knew how prison treated guys like Buford.

But still, it didn't seem right to Morgan that Buford's victims never got their chance to take back their power, properly express their rage at the person who deserved it. Much as he'd hated being in that room with the creep, listening to him spout his vile words, _shaking his hand_ to get that list for the case, at least he got to confront Buford face to face, and say everything he longed to say. What if someone like Rodney Harris had had that opportunity? Might things have turned out differently?

That had been another surprising feeling for Morgan to grapple with these past few days, his sympathy for Rodney Harris. This was the same man, after all, who used to make nasty, suggestive comments towards Desiree and had always threatened and challenged Morgan himself. He was a gangbanger, a criminal, a thug…

_…and so was I. Perhaps not to the extent he was, but still, I'm not exactly innocent, either._

He'd gotten in fights, too, after all, had run around with some questionable kids. He was all too aware of the fact that he'd come _very_ close to taking the same path Rodney did. Hell, he might've played a role in messing Rodney up even further – he'd never realized the full extent of the head injuries Rodney had suffered in that fight back when they were kids. Not until now.

_The guy was hurting and just trying to survive. Just like I was._ The guilt ate away at Morgan now. All that stupid turf war crap, all the fighting, all the threats…they were much more similar than they realized. Perhaps he could've helped him, had he known.

_Who am I kidding? He wouldn't have wanted my help. His own family, his own kid, couldn't stop him._

_Still…I should've tried. _

The tragic aftermath of Buford's crimes really did seem to know no end. More deaths, more secrets, another person in jail. Rodney needed help, had cried out for it for who knows how long…and nobody listened, not until it was too late.

Morgan looked over at the bottle that Rossi had brought by last week to celebrate the completion of the restoration. Grabbing the bottle and a wine glass, he settled himself on the windowsill, staring out at the setting sun.

As he sipped his wine, he made a plan to talk with Hotch tomorrow morning. If there was one thing Morgan's job had taught him over the years, it was never too late to help someone, be they victim or unsub.

Perhaps there was still hope for Rodney yet.

* * *

><p><strong>"Represent":<strong>

Morgan sighed, glancing up at the clock. Ten-thirty.

He glanced back down at the file again. The one he'd been putting off working on all day, involving the recent cop killer in Phoenix. He knew he needed to get it in to Hotch as soon as possible…it'd be pushing it, but Morgan was sure he could manage to get it done the next day and turned in to Hotch before he went home, God willing, tomorrow evening.

Not that he was really excited about the prospect of working on this particular file tomorrow, either, mind. Frankly, he just as soon longed to put this case out of his head altogether. Two sleepless nights picturing that widow at her husband's funeral, her young son at her side, were more than enough for him. _Not even going to try and hope tonight will be any different,_ Morgan thought as he stood, gathering his things.

Some time later, after trudging through the door of his house, Morgan flopped down on his couch, trying to distract himself with something light on television. Having no luck in that regard, he busied himself with trying to play with a not very interested and sleepy Clooney, organizing his living room, cleaning his kitchen, until finally his drooping eyelids forced him to go to bed.

He was in the middle of changing out of his clothes, the case still weighing on his mind, when his eyes caught sight of something on the floor next to his dresser. Stooping, Morgan picked it up, only to hold back a gasp as he noticed what it was.

His father's old badge. Morgan had spent a good part of the morning searching for that darned thing after noticing it had disappeared from its spot atop his dresser. _Clooney must've knocked it off or something._

He settled the badge back in its usual place, holding back a lump in his throat all the while. His father's badge sat next to his FBI one as well as the badge he'd worn back in his days as a cop in Chicago. A proud sign of the family legacy spelled out.

It was no secret why Mrs. Cunningham and her son, Sam, had affected Morgan so, of course. He'd been there himself as a child. His memories of his own father's funeral were still as clear as ever, as were the cries and wails of his mother and sisters. _At least that kid could be spared the memory of watching his dad die in front of him. _

That incident, as well as his anger and frustration over Buford roaming free for so long, were the driving forces behind him seeking out first the same career as his father, and then moving on up to the FBI. The days he'd been sworn in at both places had been the proudest ones of his life.

They'd also been the most awkward. Morgan could clearly remember, as a cop, arresting some of the very same guys he'd used to hang out with as a kid. He remembered the taunts, the nasty remarks, the accusations of working for "the man". He got called a "pig" more times than he cared to count, had even had his own place sprayed with the word once.

And once a lot of the same gang found out about him working for the FBI? Oh, that was even worse. Now he was a narc, a _real_ sellout, working for people who didn't give a damn about or respect "people like him". Morgan often publicly rolled off such comments as those of idiots who were just pissed about getting in trouble.

Privately, however? He'd turned those remarks over in his mind more times than he cared to count. Even now, when he tried to talk to gang members or other inner city people and explain that he sympathized and understood where they were coming from, his comments were met with wary or disgusted looks. Either he was trapping them, or they saw he was telling the truth, and automatically wondered how he could work for such goons as a result.

And on the opposite end, while Morgan appreciated that his teammates took seriously and genuinely sympathized with the issues and struggles people in the inner cities dealt with, they still would never fully _get it_ the way Morgan did. They'd never had the kind of life he lived. When they'd found out about his more reckless behavior as a kid, it'd surprised them, and Morgan couldn't help but find himself briefly wondering at the time if that was because they thought he "wasn't like those other people". One of the good ones, as the saying went.

So many loyalties to question and uphold, it seemed, so many roles to play. It was enough to make him seriously question more often than not just where his loyalties were supposed to lie. With the street kids for whom he vowed to fight to make life better? With his team, who he vowed to work with to protect the country at large from any threats it faced, foreign _and_ domestic? Or was it with his family, his father, especially, whom he wanted to make proud and whose legacy he wanted to carry on?

_What about myself? What do I want out of my life, my job?_

Morgan glanced at the three badges before him. Then again, who said he had to choose? His family and teammates certainly never pressured him to make a choice, they respected and admired his ability to empathize with and relate to a wide variety of people. And the guys on the street who did rag on him, well, he understood their position, and respected it on some level – he did know their feelings all too well, after all.

But at the same time, he genuinely liked his work. He liked it when he was able to reach through to a gang member and get them comfortable enough to open up to him. He liked it when a neighborhood that was already dealing with so many rough situations had at least one less thing keeping them up and in danger at night. He liked doing his part to help people in those rough neighborhoods realize there was a better route to go, and inspiring them to help make their neighborhoods a little bit better.

Then there were people like the Cunninghams. Morgan especially loved being able to bring them some sort of peace and reassurance. He liked keeping in touch with victims (and some unsubs) when possible, making sure they were doing okay and getting whatever help and support they needed.

His father had wanted to do his part to make the world a better, safer place. He didn't care about perceived loyalties, he just did what was right and just and honest, treating everyone around him equally. Really, that was all there was to it, right?

Morgan briefly touched his father's badge, bidding him a silent good-night. He turned off his light, and settled himself into bed, falling asleep within minutes.

That night, he dreamt again. Morgan was still his adult self in the dream, but he felt so much like a child. His father, meanwhile, was dressed in full uniform. Both men stood in the spot where the cop's funeral had been held. They locked eyes.

And his father smiled proudly.

* * *

><p><em>As always, reviewscritiques/etc. are appreciated!_


End file.
